Another Day in Paradise
by the laws of may
Summary: Blaine can see there's so much pain and hopelessness etched on the face of the homeless boy he sees huddled in the doorway but there's courage and humility, too. From the moment their eyes meet, Blaine knows he has to do whatever he can to rekindle the spark in Kurt Hummel's eyes and help him get his fire back. Rated M for later chapters. ON HIATUS.
1. The Boy in the Doorway

Another Day in Paradise

Blaine's laugh echoed around him as he clutched his to-go cup of coffee. His cousin Rachel was regaling him with tales of how she'd performed wonderfully at her audition for NYADA's production of West Side Story. It was scary, moving to New York to attend Columbia; Blaine still felt like a stranger. Though, while he wasn't sure he wanted to pursue Broadway like Rachel, or television acting like Rachel's fiance Finn, he was slowly but surely gaining confidence and adjusting to life in the big city.

"So, then I turned to him and said, "well, I _certainly_ can solve a problem like Maria!" Rachel said, and Finn's quizically raised eyebrow made Blaine laugh even more. "Callbacks are tomorrow, but the director said that was more of a formality. I really hope so! I need this role more than I need _air_."

"They'd be mad not to recognize your talent, babe," Finn said, clutching Rachel closely to his broad chest.

Rolling his eyes at yet another of their physicals displays of affection, Blaine didn't notice the crack in the sidewalk. Tripping a little, he turned his head to the side. What he saw immediately made his heart catch in his throat, and something clenched tightly in his chest. For all the times Rachel told him it was a fact of life in New York, a city teeming full of _transients_, it was easy to detach yourself when you'd lived there your whole life. Blaine didn't ever think he'd be able to get used to the city's immense homeless population. He tried to give them spare change whenever he could; most of them seemed older, veterans and people who couldn't afford healthcare. Instead of a lined face and a shock of gray hair, what shocked Blaine was that this man was, well, more of a boy. His bare hands were whiter than the robe Rachel wore when she went to the spa, but his cheeks were blanketed in a rosy watermelon flush due to the cold. It seemed to blush his entire face, skin paper-thin and unprotected from the icy New York winter.

"Woah, what's the hold up?" Finn called. "We're gonna be late for dinner!"

"I'll..." Blaine started, looking between the sea green eyes of the boy in the doorway and back to Finn's warm brown ones. "I... I just... forgot something. I'll catch up later!"

Then, Rachel briskly marched over to him and took ahold of his arm. "Blaine," she said tersely, tossing a veil of her shiny brown hair over her shoulder. "Are you... _oh_." She seemed to take in the homeless boy, too, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "I know it upsets you, but I can assure you the city has a very comprehensive program for rehabilitation of the homeless. Plus, Finn and I regularly volunteer at the soup kitchen; my chicken noodle soup is both nourishing _and_ healthy! I'm fairly certain I've seen him there before."

"He's... he's just a kid." Blaine lowered his voice, not wanting to humiliate the boy even more than his position suggested. He wasn't sure how Rachel could be fairly certain; Blaine didn't think he could ever forget that face, and those eyes. "He's so scared; so alone."

"Maybe he has that thing," Finn said, then chewed his lip a little. "You know, the one that makes you lose all that weight and stuff."

Blaine gasped. "Cancer?"

"Naw, the one that... it sounds like help, but it doesn't really _help_ you..." Finn shrugged one shoulder as Rachel walked over to him and clapsed his hand tightly. "AIDS! That's it!" He looked to be deep in thought. "Aw shucks. C'mon, though. If we're not at Candle 79 by, like, five minutes they'll give our reservation away."

"Just one minute," Blaine said, flashing them a smile. He knew how mad Rachel could get, and having Finn dangle the promise of her favorite restaurant under her nose only to have it yanked away would have her sulking for weeks. "I promise."

"You're most compassionate," Rachel said, but Blaine couldn't help but notice she was still holding hands with Finn, keeping her distance.

How could his cousin and friend be so callous, Blaine thought, as he forced himself to smile through his nerves and made his way over to the shivering, boy. It was only when Blaine was close enough to notice how chapped and blue-gray the boy's lips were that he realized the scarf wrapped around the boy's neck was Alexander McQueen. It made a striking contrast to the ragged sleeping bag that enveloped his form. What had happened, to cause such misery and pain and to cause _this_?

Glancing over at Rachel, who was staring at her watch, Blaine extended his hands and offered the boy his medium drip. As tiny, blotched hands extended to grip it, there was a barely perceptible murmur. The boy's face seemed too weak to even break a smile.

"Th... thank you," he said to Blaine, and Blaine could sense he had a high, proud voice even through his slight cough.

"Can I..." Blaine started, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

"Blaine!" Rachel called out. "Reservation!"

The boy laughed, and a tiny glimmer of brightness started to shine in his eyes. "Pushy, isn't she?"

"Oh, Rachel's just..." Blaine sighed, wondering if the boy did perhaps recognize Rachel from the soup kitchen. "She's just Rachel. I really have to go, but..."

Blaine wondered what he'd even say to someone in this boy's situation. There were no words he could offer to comfort, or console. Saying he'd see him again wasn't quite it, because Blaine really hoped that the boy would find warmth, and comfort, and a roof over his head. It seemed wrong to ask him for his name somehow, or ask him about his story. Rachel had told him homeless people were often drug addicts, or criminals, or incredibly dangerous. This boy seemed nothing but vulnerable and helpless but proud at the same time, but Blaine soon realized there was one thing he could do to assist the boy's situation which wouldn't rob him of his dignity, and perhaps give Blaine a chance to know a little more about how to help.

"Listen, this friend of mine owns a restaurant." Blaine quickly reached into his satchel and scribbled down the address of Santana and Brittany's cafe before pressing it into the boy's bird-like fingers. "Any time. Whenever you need a hot meal. No questions asked."

"Dude, we're leaving now!" Finn said, and when Blaine turned his head he could see Finn lead his petite girlfriend down the subway stairs already, almost hear his footsteps echo, heavy and unsympathetic.

"I won't forget this," the downtrodden boy said, cheeks appearing even more wind-bitten as a chilly gust of wind whipped around him. "I'm immensely grateful. For your kindness."

"Courage," Blaine replied with a nod, and gave one last look over his shoulder, his heart squeezed in a vice of sadness as he dashed to the subway to catch up with Rachel and Finn.

The Jewish girl immediately snapped at Blaine, startling him. "I've told you! You simply can't be soft -"

Blaine felt the hackles rise up on the back of his neck. "He wasn't always that way, Rachel," he snapped. "Through his pain, through everything, he's just a kid. He's just a kid, like... like us!"

"Blaine's right, Rach. Maybe we should..."

"This isn't Ohio, Finn," Rachel said, shaking her head. "We volunteer. My fathers give a steady proportion of their income to a variety of Jew-friendly charities. I am _not_ going to be made to feel guilty about this, and I am going to enjoy my dinner with my favorite cousin and my handsome fiance."

"Sorry," Finn muttered, Blaine tuning him out as he offered to carry her bag for her.

As they waited for their train, Finn and Rachel chatted ahead of Blaine, their chatter an endless drone, a guilty buzz around Blaine's ears. While Rachel explained to Finn what a seitan piccata was, and how she couldn't wait for her next spa appointment, Blaine couldn't stop thinking about the beleaguered boy in the doorway. Through all the pain, Blaine had seen the courage the boy showed, his morals and humility and a hint of a spark. Blaine knew he wouldn't enjoy dinner. Not when he had to find a way to rekindle the spark, and enable the homeless boy get his fire back.

**TBC**


	2. Too Proud to Beg

As he walked back to the apartment he shared with Rachel and Finn, Blaine felt sick to his stomach, pumped full of expensive food Rachel had paid for with her daddies' credit card, and guilt. Rachel and Finn walked ahead of him as usual and Blaine stared down at the sidewalk. His heartbeat sped up as he approached the building at which he'd seen the desolate-looking young homeless man earlier that evening. With each step his chest pounded, pounded, but Blaine saw nothing but an empty doorway.

Unsure why, Blaine walked forward. The boy had gone, as had the sleeping bag and his ragged drinks cup, but there, on the cold stone step, was the vivid red Alexander McQueen scarf the boy had worn earlier.

Rachel and Finn were still engrossed in conversation, becoming mere blurs in the distance so with a little bit of embarrassment, Blaine bent down to pick up the scarf before putting it in his satchel. It was soft, possibly cashmere, and caressed his hand like a whisper.

"Who _are_ you?" Blaine said, into the chill of the New York night. It was barely twenty degrees outside, and he could feel the tears that threatened to fall freeze at the corners of his eyes.

-

Blaine had an early class the following day, but his night was full of fitful dreams. He knew the statistics, he'd volunteered for The Trevor Project when he'd been at Dalton. Being a pinoy hapa man who preferred the company of other men, the odds weren't entirely in his favour. Luckily, his Latina friend Santana who was also a lesbian had always had his back after she had admired the Dalton Warblers' rendition of 'Where is the Love' by The Black Eyed Peas during Sectionals in his sophomore year while her girlfriend Brittany performed for rival New Directions. And, he realized, Santana might be the only person with the mixture of tough love and pragmatism needed to help him get a grip on this situation.

"Hey, Hobbit!" Santana said, slapping Blaine on the back as he walked through the doors of Jicama. "What's up? " the restaurateur continued, "you haven't worn that kicked puppy look since you missed out on tickets for that Roxy Music reunion."

"I..." Blaine sighed. He could never hide anything from his friend. "Maybe we could talk about it over lunch?"

Santana snorted. "A liquid one. On the rocks. First round's on you." Her eyes softened a little, betraying some of her vulnerability. "Yes, I ate. If I worked in a restaurant without eating my own food, might as well be on Kitchen Nightmares." She paused. "No, Blaine. Talk about it now before I go all Lima Heights on yo ass."

"It's," Blaine stammered a little; Santana might have been twenty one, but he still felt guilty for abetting criminal activities when he sipped on his favorite Old Fashioneds. "Okay. I was going to dinner last night, with Finn and Rachel -"

"They played footsie while Finn stuffed breadsticks down his blowhole? Well, that explains why you look like someone stole your trike."

Blaine laughed. He loved Santana's insults, because there was never any real malice beneath them. She'd had a hard life, and she had a good heart. "No, no!" Blaine shook his head. "The problem is, I saw a homeless guy on the way there."

"Blaine? Newsflash. This is New York. The guy who sold me my _Manolos_ lives under the bridge."

"I know. Rachel always tells me I'm too soft-hearted, but she was... the way she was raised, she doesn't understand how hard life can be. Finn seems to understand a little more, but he thinks if you just... toss them a few bucks and serve them some soup it's okay. And usually I agree, I have to tell myself that because it consumes me inside, but there's just something _about_ him, Santana."

Santana raised an eyebrow. "You want to bang Boxcar Billy? When's the wedding."

"No!" Blaine felt his cheeks flush and the top of his head warm under his beanie hat. "No. Santana, he was... he was just a kid. His eyes haunt me. I didn't know what I could do, but can you maybe make sure his taco's extra stuffed if he comes to _Jicama_?"

"What, because you want to stuff _his_ taco!" Santana tossed her hair over her shoulder and adjusted the straps of her dungarees. "What does he look like?"

Blaine considered the question. Granted, the boy had his sleeping bag pulled up to his chin and wore a hat, but Blaine was going to try his best to recall what had captured his imagination. "Courageous," he said, simply. "He knows he's down on his luck, but he still look so proud. He's pale, light brown hair, and he has these sea green eyes, and..."

"He needs to catch a break in this miserable, stinking world?"

"Something like that," Blaine mumbled, reaching into his satchel and extracting the boy's Alexander McQueen scarf. "If you _do_ see him, please. Give him this."

"Hey, hobo, did you drop your McQueen?" Santana said, with a snort. "I'd have more of a chance sneaking my abuela across the border than finding someone based on _that_."

Blaine sighed, as Santana fingered the fine fabric of the boy's scarf and smiled at it appraisingly before she placed it in her Coach handbag. This was going to be more difficult than Blaine had envisaged.

* * *

After four days had passed, Santana told Blaine not a single homeless person had walked through the doors of her restaurant, and that he should put the thought out of his mind and concentrate on his forthcoming audition for the role of Emmett in an amateur production of 'Legally Blonde'. Rachel assisted him in his rehearsal, but every time he sang his audition song ('When You've Got It, Flaunt It' from The Producers) he kept thinking back to the dejected but courageous-looking boy who didn't have _it_, but still tried to flaunt it, tried to show a spark in the face of danger and adversity when other people would probably have given up long ago.

"Rachel," he said, just as Rachel 's manicured fingers placed the Wagner CD in the stereo to practice for the opera course she was planning on taking over the summer. "Can I ask you a favour?"

Rachel stomped towards him on her tiny feet. "It had better be important! If I don't start my vocal runs within five minutes, my honey lemon tea will chill slightly and not be the optimum temperature to warm my vocal chords for such a challenging piece!"

Given how driven Rachel was, and given that Finn had already been banished to the nearby coffee shop to practice his own lines for an important scene he had in his crime procedural the following morning, Blaine decided to cut to the chase.

"Can I volunteer at the soup kitchen?"

"Of course!" Rachel said, with a happy squeal. "Finn and I think it's so important to give back to the community!"

* * *

Blaine fastened the red and blue-striped apron around his waist in a double bow as he walked into the dining hall of the soup kitchen. Rachel had told him that on his first shift volunteering, he was only to remove plates and trays from tables, because waiting on the homeless gave them some independence, and that was thoughtful. She explained that serving responsibilities were issued on a fair, egalitarian rota and that if he persisted in showing his compassion, he would soon be issued with his very own ladle.

"It's a tough gig, bro," Finn said, looking handsome in his apron as he patted an elderly lady on her head. "It's a lot of responsibility to place in someone's hands."

Blaine smiled at the taller man. Finn always, only ever wanted to help people but tended to lack direction in his life, and didn't have the confidence to pursue weightier acting roles. Blaine was so glad that he had Rachel in his life to drive him towards the starring roles and the spotlight he deserved. One day, Blaine thought, maybe he could star in a remake of Boys Nxt Door, and stay true to his Pinoy heritage while pursuing his own dreams of stardom. The lack of non-white stars could be disheartening, and once again Blaine's mind went to the youth. Had he lacked proper role models growing up, which had caused him to feel so alone he ran away? He must have been a runaway, after all. He looked too fragile for anything else.

"Ah!"

The sound broke through Blaine's dreamy reverie and he turned around to notice its source, pain trembling with every inch of breath. Had Rachel been right? Were the homeless dangerous, were they aggressive? It was a sound of panic, of distress, and Blaine's thoughts turned to Sugar Motta, the daughter of the man who'd sold him his piano, who had seemed just as distressed that morning. Nobody could ever hurt someone as sweet as Sugar.

When he turned around, though, Blaine saw it was the glasz-eyed boy. Blaine rushed over to behind the serving counter, sea green eyes meeting Blaine's concerned hazel orbs. The boy had dropped his Borscht over his bare, skeletal fingers and stared at Blaine like a deer in the wild who had just seen a hunter.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asked, reaching out across that damn counter barrier to somehow heal the hurts the boy was experiencing.

The boy said nothing, his soup bowl clattering to the ground, spraying Borscht over the floor like a shattered, purple snow globe.

"What happened?" Rachel asked, turning around and putting her phone back in the pocket of her apron. When she saw the soup bowl on the ground she scowled.

"I know not everyone can have my grace, and certainly not when they're underfed, but how could you be so clumsy?" Rachel announced, waving her soup ladle at the boy. "That is a waste of money, time and effort! You aren't the only hungry person here who could have used that soup!"

"I'm sorry," the boy whispered, voice barely a cracking whisper. His eyes began to water, and he seemed to shrink into himself. "Please don't be mad. I'm sorry. It was an accident."

"Well clean it up!" Rachel said firmly. "We must all do our part in this little helpful corner of the world of ours."

"But Rach," Finn said, now behind the counter too. "Last week, I was drumming with my soup ladle and ended up spill -" looking to Blaine, then to the boy in front of them, Finn shook his head. "You're being really mean. That's not cool."

Blaine didn't miss the smile that lit up the boy's face at Finn's words, and watched the boy blush as Finn reached across the counter to tap him on the shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. Blaine here will clean up. He's pretty good at cleaning up messes, y'see. You can have -" Finn reached for Rachel's ladle and plunged it into the vegan matzo ball soup. "Ow!" he said as Rachel stamped on his foot.

"Finn, darling," she said, as though telling off a young child. "Remember what I told you last week?"

"Uh, ask them if they can't have carbs?"

"Ask them if they have a _gluten intolerance_!" She shook her shiny tresses accusingly. "Homeless folk find locating suitable restrooms a hard enough task without wheat-related complications. You, of all people, should be able to understand _that_."

"I told you I suck at this!" Finn protested, rotating his ankle with a wince. "And if you want me to be your husband, you might wanna understand that your matzo ball soup is way salty."

"But Finn!" Rachel said, clearly oblivious to the queue building up behind her. "You said my matzo ball soup was delicious! My daddies said it was better than Ina Garten's! And vegan, too!"

The boy raised his head and spoke clearly and brightly. "Is this a soup kitchen, or an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia?"

"Wait?" Finn frowned. "I'm on set? Oh god, I'm totally on set. Man, this apron adds like twenty pounds. I wish someone told me."

"It's okay," the boy said, and Blaine was about to reach out to soothe his delicate-looking hand, but thought better of it as the beautiful eyes that had sparked something in Blaine narrowed to steel. "I don't _need_ your charity," the boy spat. "Nor your matzo ball soup. It's salty enough to give me wrinkles."

Rachel's bottom lip wobbled as she looked at Blaine, then at Finn, then at the line of hungry people behind the sassy homeless boy. "You!" she said, with a dramatic point of her finger. "Are not welcome at my daddies' soup kitchen for the Jewish poor."

"Good," the boy spat out with another nod of his head. "Although you might want to ask your _daddies_ to rename it to the soup kitchen for the Jewish and tasteless. Though, let me be frank. Your argyle sweater vest should have indicated that. How foolish of me."

Finn just stood there like a large goldfish as Rachel clucked a little and immediately served the next person in line with an apology and a stage-bright smile.

Blaine tore his apron off and threw it at Rachel's feet. "I'm going after him," he said, narrowly avoiding the puddle of spilled soup and crockery, shocked at his cousin's harsh words. "You could do with some charity yourself!"

**TBC**

**A/N:** Don't worry, things _are_ going to get better for Kurt. This is a romance story, remember? Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know if you enjoyed. Feedback makes me write faster!


	3. Have Your Corncakes and Eat Them Too

Blaine ran, and ran and stopped to catch his breath. How was it possible that this emaciated, fragile boy could run faster than him, escape him; Blaine sighed, worrying that perhaps he'd lost him forever.

When a small arm tapped him on the shoulder, he didn't turn around. He just _knew_.

"There you are," Blaine said, gently. "I've been looking for you forever."

"Forever's a long time," the boy said wryly.

"Maybe not _forever_." Blaine tugged a gloved palm over his gelled hair; he'd been in such a hurry he'd left his hat behind in his haste. "But ever since... since that night I saw you outside Prince Street station, I just couldn't stop thinking about you."

Blaine turned around, extending his hand. "Kurt Hummel," the boy said, a name to finally put to the face. Blaine winced as he reached for it lightly. He was scared Kurt's delicate bones might crack under the weight of his handshake, even though Blaine was making every effort he had to be as gentle and caring as possible to Kurt.

"Hi. Blaine Anderson," he said. "Look, my friend has a restaurant nearby. Let's go and get you warmed up with something a little more appetizing than Rachel's Borscht."

Kurt's face turned up slightly. "The dead pigeons in the doorways I sleep in are more appetizing than Rachel's Borscht," he replied.

Blaine chuckled. "How old are you?"

"I turned twenty last May."

"You're..." Blaine gasped, unable to believe this broken boy was a man, was older than him. He looked no more than fifteen at the most, all rosy, smooth cheeks and chestnut hair. "I turned nineteen at the beginning of February."

"Hm." Kurt almost seemed to be appraising him. "Aquarius. The true humanitarians of the zodiac, or so I've heard." He shook his head. "Sadly for me, I tend to be a little skeptical when it comes to humanitarians."

"When was the last time you even had a shower?"

"Oh, probably when they cancelled Eastwick!" Kurt grinned and fluttered his eyelashes. "Why, are you offering?"

"Absolutely, but there's someone I'd like you to meet first. C'mon, take my hand. I'll lead the way."

* * *

They walked, hand-in-hand, in near silence. Kurt stopped every few minutes to cough into the tattered handkerchief he clasped in his hand. His hands were larger than Blaine might have expected, purplish-blue fingers poking through the tattered holes in what looked to be a once-expensive pair of nubuck gloves. His fingernails were ragged, earth brown dirt clinging underneath his nails and cuticles. Blaine reached for Kurt's hands and placed them in his own, the two sharing breaths and eye contact as they paused for a moment as they walked to _Jicama_.

"Well, well, Britts," Santana said, walking forward to the doorway as the bell above the door signaled their entrance. "Looks like our Hobbit finally found Smeagol under the bridge."

Brittany twirled a lock of her blonde hair around her finger. "Blaine, Santana didn't have her second breakfast. Or her first." She looked to her girlfriend, concerned. "Blaine's friend needs breakfast. You always told me it's the most important meal of the day, even though for you it's not a meal, because you only have a drink."

"Mercedes!" Santana yelled across the dining room. "Two machacha con huevos and a stack of jalapeno corncakes!"

"I don't like -" Blaine started.

"They're not for you, short round," Santana said, as she led them to a table by the window. "Quinn will take care of you. I gotta go check on my steamed clams."

"Quinn." Blaine said tersely. "It's a pleasure."

"Hello. Welcome to _Jicama_. What can I get for you today?" she said in a bored monotone, then checked her watch.

"It's her last shift," Blaine explained to Kurt.

"Oh, well in that case? A single plum, served in perfume, floating in a man's hat." Kurt paused and looked up from studying his nails. "I'll have a diet coke."

Blaine couldn't help but notice the scarf that was wrapped around Quinn's slender neck. "Quinn, is that Alexander McQueen?"

"It's vintage, but in wonderful condition," Quinn said. It wasn't something Quinn would choose for herself, the former cheerleader preferring pale, pastel sunshine colors, and Blaine and instantly knew exactly where it had come from. "Santana gave it to me as a leaving present."

"I believe that's my scarf," Kurt replied.

"You?" Quinn snorted. "A homeless man, who just happens to be the owner of a three hundred dollar woman's silk scarf?"

"I believe so. Look at the label."

Quinn's hands were on her hips, now. "I think I'd know fakes. Santana would _never_ embarrass me with fakes. She keeps the price tags attached on everything she owns."

"Look," Kurt repeated, "at the label."

"It's just a scarf," Quinn replied, but removed it and looked on the label. Her pretty cheeks flushing, she passed it to Blaine immediately. "Take it. It doesn't go with my complexion, anyway."

Kurt turned to Blaine with an adorable, toothy smile and called after Quinn as her boots clacked away. "Can you amend my order? I'd also like a slice of humble pie."

* * *

There was something behind the scarf, Blaine realized, but before he asked Kurt too many questions he just sat back and let Kurt tuck into his brunch. Blaine had craned his neck, but couldn't see anything of significance on the label, but it didn't matter. Kurt had immediately wrapped it around his neck, a scarlet security blanket exactly the same as the one that had hugged his tender neck that first night Blaine had seen him huddled in the doorway.

"Why did you bring me here, Blaine?" Kurt said, setting down his fork. Blaine felt like crying; Santana's portions were always generous, but Kurt had barely eaten one of his corn cakes even though he'd told Blaine during the meal he'd subsisted on watered-down soup from the soup kitchen and the odd hand-out from a passerby for months. "To be given the same prejudice, the same discrimination that I receive everywhere by people you call your friends?"

"Quinn is..." Blaine frowned. "Quinn is not my friend. But Santana has a huge heart. Don't be fooled by her exterior; she's like the horchata she serves. A little spicy, and something of an acquired taste, but really very sweet."

"Blaine. She called me Smeagol."

Blaine laughed. "You should hear the nicknames she has for Rachel's fiance and the bartender here! No, no. I brought you here to talk to her. She's been looking to hire again since Quinn handed in her notice."

"Are you..." Kurt started. "But I don't have any customer service experience. I don't even have an address!"

Reaching across the table, Blaine placed his palm on the base of Kurt's hand. Even after eating and drinking, Kurt's hand was still ice cold to the touch. "Brittany still asks people why they want to eat rodents every time they order the mole. Mercedes," Blaine gestured to the curvy African American girl with the bright smile and even brighter clothes, "she lives in Brownsville. And Sam, the guy behind the bar? Santana puts him behind the bar because he's dyslexic. He can't even read the menu."

"Charity begins at home, I see," Kurt said, softly.

"Blaine. Thank you. Thank you, for everything. I... I still don't have a permanent address, though. I can occasionally sneak into hostels and use showers there, although they often demand a small fee. I'm sure I could..."

Blaine squeezed Kurt's hand a little more tightly this time. "Rachel and Finn's apartment in Greenwich Village is very spacious. It's only a two bed, but if we move Rachel's trophies and treadmill from her walk-in closet, I'm sure we could find the space for you."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "You want me to move _back_ in the closet?" He snorted. "After all the trouble I had coming out of one?"

Unable to help himself, Blaine opened his mouth and stared at Kurt in wide-eyed shock. He'd been aware Kurt might be gay like him or like Santana, but it was beyond presumptuous to ask outright. It would be offensive implying Kurt was gay. He seemed prissy, and a little feminine, but also strong and determined. Stereotypes wouldn't be doing anyone any favors. And, so far, Kurt Hummel had defied every stereotype of a homeless, down-on-their luck individual that Blaine had ever been told by Rachel.

"Rachel's closet's bigger than my room," Blaine said, shaking his head. "You'll see for yourself. Come on. Finish your drink while I have a chat with Santana over there, and then we'll go and check it out."

**TBC**

A/N: Please, _please_ let me know if you read and enjoyed! And if you have any suggestions on where you'd like this story to go please let me know! :)


	4. Trapped in the Closet

Kurt looked around the spacious, luxurious apartment. Rachel's dear zayde had left it to her, being her daddies' only child. The walls were painted in blush pink, with light violet on the feature wall. A giant gold Star of David was hung over the fireplace. Posters and signed playbills of Rachel's favorite musicals were hung in the walls in golden frames: Wicked; West Side Story; Fiddler on the Roof.

"This isn't an apartment," he said softly and sweetly. "It's a _palace_." There was an edge like the snap of a whip to Kurt's voice, reminding Blaine of a cornered, and yet still majestic lioness. Kurt didn't belong in the captivity of the maze of streets that made up New York city, but in the wide open spaces and opportunity a safe and comfortable home could provide. Blaine wondered what might happen if everyone could see what he saw; that the homeless truly needed a home. So much of the world's ills could be fixed. Blaine, as much as he fixed people as best he could, was just one man. But he could start here. With Kurt.

"Rachel's worked hard to make this place so homely," Blaine said faithfully. "Well, her two dads assist with maintenance, but it won't be that way forever. They're just giving Rachel a helping hand so she can devote her time to college and to her volunteering." Looking at Kurt, whose mouth was still wide open in awe at the beautiful apartment, he placed a palm on Kurt's arm, gentling him. "She might not be able to cook, but she's still a good person."

"I'll take your word on it," Kurt murmured, reaching up to play with the ends of his scard. "So where's this closet?"

"Over here!" Blaine began to walk past Rachel's bedroom. "It has two entrances," he explained to Kurt, pulling on a golden handle to reveal the innards of the walk-in closet. There was a huge display of trophies at the back from the pageants and competitions Rachel had won, clothes hanging on all sides arranged by color and cut, a treadmill and a drum kit, as promised. It was lit by soft ambient spotlights, with plush carpet underfoot and the walls painted forest green.

"Wow." Kurt gasped, his soft pink mouth falling open. He peered around Blaine, taking in everything. "Are you _sure_ this isn't an extra bedroom?"

"It used to be, and so it becomes again," Blaine said, and Kurt laughed. He tentatively began to wander further into the closet.

"And you're sure I can stay here?" Kurt asked, spinning on his heel like a whirlwind of energy to face Blaine. "I don't feel like I … belong." Blaine noticed that Kurt was holding himself in, not touching anything, and was self-consciously rubbing at a dirt stain on his hand.

"It's fine," Blaine said. "And you'll feel better once you get a chance to raid Rachel's closet. She has too many clothes," Blaine said with a wink.

"You can never have enough clothes," Kurt said seriously, then grinned. "But from what I've seen of her style, you _can_ have too many of Rachel's clothes. I wish I still had my old wardrobe …"

"You miss it, right?" Blaine asked. "All of it?"

Kurt paused a moment, breath gusting out, eyelashes fluttering. Then his face became like steel. "Of course I do," Kurt snapped. "Who wouldn't? To go from being a real person to some piece of dirty trash on the street."

"You're not trash," Blaine said earnestly. "You _are_ a real person. Just … a real person who's been caught up in unreal circumstances. As for the dirt … we have a shower, so that's an easy fix." He smiled hopefully.

Eventually, Kurt smiled back. "Um. Well, may I borrow a towel?"

"They're in the linen closet across from the bathroom. Knock yourself out, with that and any of the products you might need. My razor and loofah are the blue ones, feel free to use them if you like." Blaine gestured down the hall. "I'll get started in here, making things more livable."

"Thank you," Kurt said, and his words seemed to carry the weight of the world coming from his high yet heavy voice. The meaning was clear, and it made Blaine's heart thump. He smiled even wider, and once Kurt had disappeared into the shower he dragged Rachel's treadmill into her and Finn's bedroom, as they had room, and pushed Finn's drumkit underneath Rachel's array of hung-up sweaters - if he wanted to practice, he could move it to the living room. For the trophies he moved some from the bottom shelf up to the top, crowding the effect a little but leaving room for any of Kurt's belonging. Then he set up an air mattress from his, Rachel and Finn's incredibly disastrous camping attempt. (It was like the episode of Sex and the City where Carrie and Samantha went up to the wilds of New York state and complained a lot, with Finn and Blaine following them as the too-eager boyfriend. Blaine laughed at the memory, shaking his head.)

Blaine heard the shower running for a long time, but knew that there was enough hot water for all of them to shower several times over. When Blaine heard the taps creak to a halt, he smiled, shaking out the comforter and placing it on the air mattress with two fluffy pillows from Finn's side of the bed. (Blaine was sure Finn wouldn't notice them, or wouldn't miss them if he did; sometimes Finn even said he preferred to sleep on the floor, or the couch.)

"Hi," Kurt said, softly. Blaine's had gathered some of his clothes. A pair of his most comfortable sweats, and a shirt Kurt should to be able to fit into without too much room left over. He walked into the closet with a billow of fresh shower scent (he had used Blaine's shower gel, Blaine realized with a strange feeling, not Finn's) and clutched a towel modestly up around his chest, leaving his skinny, bruised yet smooth legs on display. Blaine gasped at the sight. Kurt was so much thinner than Blaine could have imagined, and the number of scars on Kurt's beautiful, milky skin made Blaine feel like the air had been vacuum sealed out of the room. Yet, Blaine couldn't deny that Kurt was beautiful. Even moreso without the dirt covering him.

"Here," Blaine said, handing Kurt the clothes. "I'll be in the living room."

"Thanks."

Eventually, Kurt came out of the closet and Blaine offered him some coffee. For some reason, Kurt declined the offer of coffee, but said he'd prefer a glass of warm milk. He sat next to Blaine, Blaine barely feeling his presence as they both watched re-runs of _2 Broke Girls_ which Blaine thought would cheer Kurt up. He also thought the sassiness in the face of adversity would work well with Kurt. Kurt stared down into his warm milk, chuckling a little from time to time, but his beautiful jade eyes just looked so sad. Blaine frowned. He'd arranged for this homeless boy to have a job, and a safe place to sleep. Shouldn't Kurt have been the picture of happiness?

Kurt squeaked a little, and Blaine pulled him a little closer. The soft, dreamy sigh Kurt made in response made Blaine's heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vice. Taking a deep breath, Blaine reached up to smooth a strand of Kurt's soft chestnut hair behind one his of adorable, elfin ears.  
"Maybe..." Kurt started. "Maybe I could be like that one day?" He gestured at Rachel's flat screen, which sat in an expensive walnut cabinet. "Start a successful business after losing everything?"

"Maybe?" Blaine leaned closer, certain Kurt could feel the warm rush of his breath against his ear. "Kurt. You are strong, you are smart, and you have so much courage. You can do anything you want to."

"I used to think that way." Kurt turned his head, and Blaine noticed the crystal formations of tears springing at the corners of his eyes. "I used to have a life. A family who loved me. And then it was... it was all ripped away."

Blaine sighed. "Santana's a good boss," he offered. "If you work hard at _Jicama_, you'll be rewarded."

Kurt sighed. "I'm worried it will be too physical for me. I have a few... teething problems with my health."

"That's okay," Blaine replied to the boy, wondering if Finn had been correct and perhaps Kurt _was_ HIV positive. "You can rest here for a few days and gather your strength. My friend Tina works at the Beiste clinic, which provides healthcare on a sliding scale. We can get you there tomorrow for a check-up. With the right drugs, it's possible to live a fulfilling life with -"

"I don't have AIDS," Kurt snorted. "What is this, _RENT_? If that's what you're wondering. It would have been so easy. Sell myself on the street like a street vendor selling pretzels. It was... keeping control of my body. That was the one thing I could keep control of, Blaine."

"I'm sorry." Blaine sighed, watching Kurt slowly sip his warm milk. "I didn't mean to make assumptions."

"That's okay." Kurt set his half-eaten biscotti down on a china plate and curled further into his arm. "Everyone does. But you're not like the rest."

* * *

"Hey!" Finn said, laden with bags from Macy's like a six foot three inch tall pack horse. "We got take-out!"

Rachel flounced through the doorway and extended her wrist to Blaine. "Look! Finn got me a little gold Chai charm for my charm bracelet!" She walked away and enveloped her handsome fiance in hug, Blaine winching a little at the sloppy sounds of them making out _yet again_.

"What's Chai?" Blaine asked.

"I thought it was a kind of tea," Finn confessed. "Then Rach told me it's a Jew symbol. It means life."

"Really, Blaine?" Rachel shook her head. "Jewish descent is matrilineal. I'm ashamed you're not aware of this important constituent of your Jewish heritage." She tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Finn's converting for me, you know. Isn't that romantic?"

Then, she stopped in her tracks and raised one eyebrow. "Blaine, you bought a friend? You should have told me. Not to worry, I can always send Finn out for more take-out." She extended her hand. "I'm Rachel Berry. It's a pleasure to meet any friend of Blaine's."

"Kurt Hummel," Kurt replied. "And I'm not pleased to make your acquaintance.

"Dude," Finn said, walking over to appraise Kurt. "You look kinda familiar."

"Of course I do," Kurt said. His eyes looked kindly towards Finn and a light blush appeared on his cheeks as he made contact with Finn's kind brown eyes. Then, the blaze of steel and flying sparks of steel being welded appeared again as he turned his gaze towards Rachel's frightened brown eyes. "I seem to remember somebody in this room telling a starving homeless man to clean up his own soup after handing him a bowl that was fresh from the dishwasher and hotter than the sun. Does that ring a bell, _Rach-e-le_?"

"What?" Rachel's eyes bugged out. "You're... you're..."

"Charity begins at home," Kurt replied, smoothly. "Blaine very kindly arranged for me to start working at his friend's restaurant. I'm sure you won't even notice me sleeping in your closet, but I'm sure Blaine's friend will give me an advance and I'll very soon be out of your hair." He raised an eyebrow. "Which, by the way, ombre highlights? _So_ fall should sack your stylist."

"You thought you'd invite a _homeless man_ into our beautiful apartment?" Blaine's eyes flew open like a frightened horse, wondering what he could do to diffuse tension from the awkward situation. "Without telling _me_? What if he steals some of my Bat Mitzvah jewellery, or, or my autographed Lea Salonga water bottle? I have a plethora of incredibly valuable Broadway memorabilia."

"Rach," Finn said, walking over to hold his fiance close. "Blaine was only trying to help. Look at him. He can't even lift his cup of warm milk he's so weak."

"That's what he _wants_ us to think," Rachel spat.

Blaine stood up, staring down at her. Rachel always seemed ten feet tall when she spoke like this, but Blaine wasn't going to back down. "Kurt is staying here," he said, voice harder and more determined than a baby trying to crawl out of its pen. "And that is final."

Blaine thought about countering the argument with the fact Rachel's friends stayed over all the time, but that would have been dishonest; unfortunately, Rachel was too busy with college and volunteering to be able to sustain any lasting friendships, although her friend Jesse did occasionally stay.

"Eggplant parmesan, anyone?" Rachel offered, flashing Kurt a watery smile, and Blaine sat down next to Kurt again, placing a cushion on his lap as Finn put tray tables in front of them. Usually they ate at the dining table, but Blaine wanted to do whatever he could to make Kurt feel at home.


End file.
